


The Run and Go

by Iliveandbreathewords



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bit of Fluff, Character Development, Multi, Roadtrip, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:25:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iliveandbreathewords/pseuds/Iliveandbreathewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which a previously brainwashed soldier and a girl with strange powers travel across the world in an attempt to right old wrongs and discover just who they really are. Set pre-civil war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 // everybody wants to rule the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Before anyone gets confused, I just wanted to point out that for a few chapters Bucky will be referred to as James, his first name. This is just to fit in with the plot of the story as he doesn't truly know who he is and presumably found his name in an old file and figured that it was what he'd been called his whole life. It'll probably change back to his second name a bit later on but for now I just wanted to give the reader an idea of his lack of memories. I hope you enjoy x

Steve Rogers.

James stared at the photo in his hands as if it held the answer to all of the questions that plagued his mind.  
To anyone else it was just a simple photo of the famous hero that was Captain America, slightly crumpled and a little worse for wear. Its corners were bent from months of his thumb brushing against it and the picture itself was slightly blurry, but still it felt fresh and new as he analysed it.  
Because, in a way, it still was.

Short, blonde hair with piercing blue eyes: those were the first features James always noticed. Well, mainly the eyes. He'd read a World War II veteran's biography at the local library once, and the man had had the pleasure of meeting the saviour of his war. In the masses of descriptive, analytical writing on the topic had been a passage purely on the Captain's eyes. The soldier had gone into great detail describing them, but one line in particular had stuck out to James. 

The man had compared Steve's eyes to justice: he felt as if they could see right through to his soul, sorting through all the good and the bad stuff and discovering if he were truly worthy of serving his country.  
James agreed with the justice part. All those months ago he still remembered that strong gaze locked with his. Sometimes it still felt as if it were boring into him from the other side of the planet.  
However, the veteran was wrong about one thing. No matter what those deep eyes saw in the gaze reflected back at them they always chose to believe in the best parts they could find in a person.  
Even when there were none.

"Steve Rogers," James murmured to himself, as if the name meant anything to him.  
He spent one last moment absorbing Captain America's heroic pose and the way the light bounced off of his shield, trying to feel something; anything. Then, after no sudden pop or flash of memory he flipped the picture aside and Steve Rogers was lost in the pile of faces and forgotten memories that lay before him.

James' hand stirred restlessly over the articles and pictures, some of them printed recently, others clipped out of newspapers and a select few all the way from the war itself. After a few moments of hesitation his fingers settled on one of the most familiar pictures, consisting of a single redhead eying the camera steadily. He picked it up and brought it closer to him, the customary weight welcome in his grip.

It was an agent headshot from some S.H.I.E.L.D report released after the organisation was destroyed, and it had taken very little for him to find it. Decrypting it to find information, however, had proved to be more than enough of a challenge.  
But, as the saying goes, know your enemy - if she was even that to him.

The last had quite a feline look to her in the picture. Auburn hair in a longish bob, thin lips and very sharp, very dangerous green eyes. Those were the eyes you find on someone who knows they've killed before and would do it again in the blink of an eye if they had to. Eyes that were equal parts uncaring and attentive, both hostile yet strangely enticing. But enclosed in between those thick lashes, captured clearly in her gaze, was the harshness and brutality of a survivor.  
James wondered if his eyes looked like that.

"Natasha Romanoff," he repeated, her name sounding bitter coming off of his tongue.  
She was the only one out of the groups of people and places that he actually remembered.  
She was the one he'd put a bullet into.

With a sigh he dropped the photo on top of the pile and began silently running through names, things he could still distantly recall in spite of his lack of memories.

Hydra.

Captain America.

Natasha Romanoff.

Coney Island.

Brooklyn.

Red Skull.

Ice.

Train.

Falling.

Cold.

James muttered them to himself as he methodically stacked the photos and files up into a messy pile and slipped them into a little wooden box which he kept next to his bed.  
Out of sight, out of mind, he always told himself.  
But not really.

The knock on the door echoed through the little apartment just as he placed the lid on his collection of bits and bobs. He glanced up as the light rap reached his ears hesitantly, as though it wasn't certain it wanted to be heard. However, in a one room home it was kind of difficult to miss anything.

He'd moved here shortly after fleeing America and the people that came attached to it. After securing a jacket and a pair of gloves to conceal his metal arm the day S.H.I.E.L.D crashed, he'd smashed an ATM on the lonely corner of some street before making a mad dash to the other side of the city.

Admittedly, stealing the money had not been one of James' better moments. He had been so panicked and disorientated at the time that his morales had slipped down to allow him to get away from the man he'd dragged out of the water: the man he now knew as Steve Rogers.

That mission had been the beginning of this new life. At first he could remember nothing before that single day. Nothing beyond the man with the kind eyes and the sad, sad smile. Nothing beyond the way he had punched him over and over again to stop the sudden flashes of strange memories raging through his skull. Nothing beyond dragging him out of the water and leaving him barely breathing on the banks of a random river.

That was ultimately why he'd ended up jumping onto the nearest plane with a ticket that wasn't even bought with his own money. James had been so frightened of what lay behind him that he didn't care to stop and see where he was going.

And as things turned out, this little apartment in Bucharest was that unknown destination he had been running to.

Despite the knock's reluctant sound James stood up and quietly made his way for the door, stopping by the kitchen (or the part of the one room apartment he had designated as the kitchen) to slip a serrated knife into his back pocket. Ever since the incident in Washington he'd become increasingly cautious towards curious stares or unexpected knocks on the door. It wasn't as if he were expecting a guest when he didn't know anyone in the first place.

James glanced at the door and saw a shadow falling on the other side of it, presumably of the person waiting for him to answer.  
For one brief, paranoid moment he imagined a Hydra thug standing outside, ready to drag him off kicking and screaming as soon as he opened the door. It was a quick and easy way to make him turn into their precious Winter Soldier again, and it didn't help his already slightly frayed nerves.

However, with a mental brace for the worst and a double check that the knife was still in his pocket James walked over to the door and quickly opened it the same way you want to take off a bandage - quickly, so it doesn't take an unnecessary length of time and amount of pain.

However, what he saw surprised him a bit more than a Hydra agent ever would've.

A girl leaned against the doorway, no older than sixteen. She was quite small, and he had to tilt his head down slightly to even spot her petit frame. One of her small hands was slightly outstretched, as if she were about to knock on the old wood again, but quickly drew it back as he opened the door.  

He eyed the girl up and down quickly, absorbing all of her in one hurried glance. She consisted of a dirty pair of black jeans, a leather jacket, a beaten down backpack and a wave of dark hair that mostly concealed her face. That was really all there was to her. No gun or any other threatening item pointed at him: in fact, the only thing even slightly alarming about her was the state of her converse sneakers. They looked as if they hadn't been taken off or cleaned in fifty years.

"Pot ajuta ou?" He asked in Romanian, seeking out her gaze. Can I help you?

She peered up at him slowly and tucked a few thick strands of her hair behind her ears, confirming that there was actually a face behind all those wild curls. A pair of large green eyes stared back at him, the dim light from the hallway lighting them up and making them look unnaturally bright against the pallor of her face. 

The girl drummed her fingers nervously against her leg, a bit of hesitation finally reaching her serious gaze.  
"Esti...esti James Barnes?" She asked in halting Romanian, eyes lightening up with a sudden hope.

If that hope died a moment later, James would ever know. After those three familiar words exited her mouth all possibility of conversation between the two of them disintegrated, and Bucky closed the door in her face. He was breathing heavily.

James Buchanan Barnes.  
According to an old dusty military file, that was his name.  
Also according to the file, he was killed in action over 70 years ago, tumbling off of a train in some snowy mountains.

And James had no doubt about that fact. The smiling, innocent boy in the picture from the file was gone, left behind in the last world war, and in his place was himself. He had the boy's face, he supposed. They shared a lot of features physically, minus his dimpled grin. James didn't even know he could smile.

Other than the shared nose, eyes and ears, however, they didn't seem to have much else in common. Nothing else but Steve Rogers, which was unfortunate. James Buchanan Barnes would've been very upset to hear that he'd come close to killing his best friend. 

The largest problem he had with the the name (beyond the Captain America ties) was that it wasn't even a nice name. It was too traditional to be anything but haughty-sounding.  
James, his first name, was boring and lifeless even to his own ears, but he couldn't think of anything to replace it with. Jay, JJ and Jamie were options, but he didn't really fancy them either. The only other thing he could do was go by Buchanan, his second name, but that sounded even more strange to him than James. And it wasn't as if he could make a nickname out of that anyway.

The girl's wavering voice travelled past the door, pulling James out of his deep train of thought. He jerked his head up as a thunk on the wood resonated into all four corners of the apartment, making him debate if she was trying to break it down or not. She seemed a little too tiny to be so vicious - but then again, that was like assuming a hornet was harmless because it wasn't bigger than your thumb.

"Te rog..." She pleaded, voice so weak. "Am nu au călătorit la jumătatea distanţei în întreaga lume pentru a te transforma-ma jos."  
I haven't travelled halfway across the world for you to turn me down.

"De unde eşti?" He asked carefully, edging towards the door. Where are you from?

His mind was clicking to life, altering and changing thoughts in his attempt to figure out the person on the other side of the door. Normally he was quite good at reading people, but she had been surprisingly difficult to puzzle out, what with the dark clothing and wary eyes.  
One thing he was certain of, however, was that she wasn't Romanian. She wasn't pronouncing a lot of words correctly. James would know: he had made the same mistakes in the beginning, when he had first fled America.

"Sokovia," the girl admitted, but continued hopefully before James could query further. "Dar eu pot vorbi engleza."  
But I can speak English.

James let out a little sigh of relief. While his Romanian was growing more advanced every day, he was still finding his way around the language. He had discovered that he was actually surprisingly good with linguistics, but even he could skim through all of the squiggles and lines above letters and admit that it was all very confusing.

"You want me to speak it?" He asked softly.

A pause, and then: "Yes please."

James nodded as if she could see him and continued in English, his hand resting on the door handle.  
"Look, whatever you've heard, I'm not in that business anymore. I can't help you, alright?"

He waited for her answer, seeing whether or not she'd accept him and leave or stay a little longer in an attempt to persuade him. He actually lingered by the door for quite a long time, long enough to let his brows furrow and his mouth set into a frown. Longer than he ought to.  
However, the only sound he heard during his weight was a slight thump, which he assumed was from one of the neighbors. They were loud at the best of times.  
Finally, when her reply never came he took it as a sign that she had left, and peeked out of the door just to make sure.

It would've been so much easier if she had given up and headed off. If she had he never would've had to leave the comfort of his apartment. He would've been perfectly content spending his days sorting through lost memories and working out just who James Buchanan Barnes really was, and how he fitted into the puzzle that was the past.

As it was, however, James never got the chance to do all that. Instead, as he poked his head outside to analyze the situation, he realized that at some point in the last few minutes the girl had collapsed onto the hard concrete floor. 

She was out cold, her dark hair flung across her pixie features like she'd just gotten whiplash. The chestnut strands contrasted strongly against her pale face, which lacked even more colour than before. The contents of her backpack had spilled out around her, most items somewhat squished after her tumble to the ground. She really was in quite a mess.

Now, James could've left her there. He could've closed the door and gone back to his new life and pretended that a strange teenager hadn't just fainted on his door step. Most people probably would've.  
But, deep down he knew that just wasn't how he worked. Even though he didn't truly know what kind of person he had been before the Winter Soldier, he knew that it wasn't the sort who would just abandon a young girl there. The two unfamiliar counterparts still had their morales in common if nothing else.

So, with a small sigh and the lingering knowledge that he would regret this later, James crossed the point of no return and carried the unconscious girl inside.


	2. 2 // go under

The girl began to stir only as James set the kettle on the stove.

Half an hour prior to then he'd been blankly staring at her small, crumpled form lying in front of his doorway. After plenty of debate, however, he had eventually decided to pick up her tiny body in an inelegant over-the-shoulder sweep and lug her into the apartment like she was a sack, her hair tangling and twisting down his back. Not the smoothest way to bring her in, but he wasn't exactly the typical Prince Charming to the rescue either.

He had glanced around slowly as he locked the door with his free hand, debating where he was going to set her down before realizing that there were only two options: the bed or the couch.   
As his bed was currently littered with half-decrypted files he'd printed at the nearest internet café the day before he'd settled on plonking her on the overstuffed settee, again in the least gentle way possible. Unintentionally, of course.  
Her head had lolled softly to the side as James had taken a step back, appraising her with troubled eyes.

A simple, unassuming teenager had known his name. His real name. The one thing he'd thought had dropped completely off the radar after he had left America. His precious treasure that had previously been rendered unknown and untraceable - until know.  
James frowned worriedly, beginning to pace around the small space in repetitive circles.

This was bad. Really, really bad. If she could gain access to his information, who else could? Hydra? The Avengers? Some other harmful organization? His head hurt just running through all of the possibilities.  
A seed of paranoia had been planted in his head now, and it was growing deeper and deeper by the minute.   
Someone would find him, soon enough. They'd hunt him down and make him the mindless killing machine he'd been mere months before, taking his memories and his free will and replacing it with the Winter Soldier.  
And there was nothing he feared more than that.

James paused, halfway through the sixteenth circle. He was surprised he hadn't burned a hole in the floor yet through his pacing.  
There was no point in worrying now, if he was honest with himself. The truth was, he'd only truly discover the mysterious girl's motives and her even more puzzling sources when she woke up, and judging by her very soft snores that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

So instead he'd busied himself with making a cup of tea: the only thing that could give him comfort when he was anxious. Also, it was one of the few edible items impossible to burn/overcook/undercook.  
Okay, scratch the bit about it being impossible. He'd set fire to the kettle once but that wasn't the point.

James had just poured the tea into two cups when a low moan had escaped the girl's lips, making him pause for a moment to stare at her. His momentary distraction ended up earning him a scalding drop of water dripping onto his arm, he made him swat his hand through the air like it had a bee on it. He swore lightly just as she opened her eyes to stare at him.

The movement must have been bigger than intended because the girl sat up sharply a moment later, her bed head twisting around like an owl to stare at him. Before he could even say something she raised her arms threateningly, and he swore that something dangerous flickered through her gaze, a kind of brutal determination he never thought he'd see in someone that young. However, the moment quickly ended and the girl dropped her arms, the haze in her eyes fading. Now all that was left was pure confusion.

"Where..." She started sluggishly, but then paused as slow memories came flooding back into her head. "I mean, I was just-"  
"You passed out," James informed her, and gave her a cup of tea as he pulled up one of the kitchen chairs to sit near her. He took a long sip out of his own cup, waiting for her response to the news. Instead he all got was a distressed and more than slightly judgmental look.  
"That tea you're drinking's boiling. Do you know that?"

He stared at the cup and saw that a thick smoke was rising off of it, confirming the girl's claim. He shrugged dismissively and took another sip, only now noticing the scalding liquid traveling down his throat. One of the perks of being experimented on in a lab was that hot tea no longer burned your insides, apparently.  
"I got a throat of steel," James said vaguely.  
And other things of steel as well, but he didn't mention that.

The girl frowned and carefully set her own tea aside, turning to give him a serious look.  
"Okay, that's a little weird. In fact, this whole situation is very, very weird. I mean, I just woke up in a strange apartment with a strange man in a strange, unfamiliar city and-"

"You're babbling," he told her, and took another sip of tea.

She threw her arms up exasperatedly. "Well what else am I supposed to do? This is the furthest I've been from home in a long time and it's a little daunting, okay? I'm hungry, I'm tired, and locked in an apartment with a man who refused to see me just a little while ago. I think I have the right to babble."  
"Fair enough," James agreed. He thought for one brief moment, puzzling over something she had just said, before asking her something.  
"You said you haven't eaten in a while. Is that why you passed out?"

The girl turned a faint shade of pink, allowing a bit of colour to finally creep into her cheeks. It was a welcome change after its previous pallor. "I-I guess so," she stuttered. "I'll b-be alright though. It's only been about a day since I had my last protein bar. Or was it two? I can't remember."

She had grown paler through the course of the conversation (excluding her brief flush of embarrassment) and now looked positively white as she stood up absently. And, while the rest of her was eager to up and leave, her feet were not so prepared for the quick movement. The result was that they gave up beneath her, and she teetered unsteadily on the balls of her feet. James had to lunge across the apartment to catch her just before her head hit the floor.

"I'm fine," she argued weakly as he sat her back down on the couch. She didn't fight him.  
"'Fine' isn't spontaneously collapsing into a heap," James argued, and quickly moved over to the fridge to grab some leftover pizza from the night before. Despite her protests he heated it up and passed her a coke for good measure as they waited for the food. He wasn't surprised when her retorts were cut short a moment later as she effortlessly downed the drink. When the pizza was ready, it didn't last much longer either. 

"Has pizza always tasted so good?" She sighed, lowering the empty plate onto the table. "I don't remember it tasting so good."  
"Hunger does incredible things to a person's appetite," He commented, gazing at the place where the pizza once was with a little bit of regret. He'd been saving that for supper.

The girl paused for a moment to brush some crumbs off of her top and then looked down, her hair sliding over her cheek. It hid her face quite efficiently behind a wave of dark brown. She spoke her next words so softly he almost missed it.  
"Thank you."

Maybe it was because she looked so small and fragile lying on the huge couch, or maybe it was the insecure way her eyes glanced up from underneath her curtain of hair. He wasn't exactly certain why she looked so vulnerable and frightened to him, just curled up there. All he really knew at that moment was that this girl needed a little bit of kindness and caring right now, and hopefully he could deliver. 

"Where's your family?" He asked gently, and the girl glanced up.   
She brushed aside a few inky strands slowly before replying. "Gone."

James frowned. That wasn't the response he'd been expecting.  
"I know how you feel, trust me. However, if you're here because of them I don't think-"  
"I've heard you're good at keeping people hidden," the girl blurted out, and immediately looked like she regretted it.

James took another gulp of tea, but this time it tasted bitter and cold as it travelled down his throat. He took his time lowering the almost empty cup onto his lap, and when he was done answered in a crisp tone. It held very little of the warmth he'd previously shown.  
"Not interested."

The girl frowned, a little bit of confusion slipping into her gaze. "But I thought that you-"  
"You thought wrong. I really have no interest in playing games with the cops, and you shouldn't either. Just go to a shelter or something, kid - don't do anything illegal. Life's a little less kind to you when you break the law."

For the first time since she'd woken up, the girl scowled. Her mouth dipped into an angry line, and that same strange glow flashed through her eyes again. James was almost certain he wasn't imagining it this time.  
"I'm not a kid," she ground out, her accent noticeably thicker. "I'm here as a potential employer and an adult, offering you a large sum of money to do what I've heard you're very good at. Understand?"  
"What deal?" He asked sarcastically, ignoring her tone. "You fainted outside my door and I felt bad so I brought you in. You've said nothing about a deal."

"I was getting there!" She snapped, and stormed over to her bag. She didn't topple over as she rummaged through it, and when she'd found what she was looking for she thundered right to where James was sitting and slammed a thick stack of paper onto the table in front of him.

He stared at it a moment, and then his eyes widened until he felt as if they were going to pop out of his head as he realized what it was.  
It wasn't just a few simple papers; it was a huge wad of somewhat squished bank notes. As James gaped at it, he realized they were all $100 bills.

"Eight thousand dollars in cash," the girl confirmed, folding her arms angrily. "And that's only the up front payment. If you help me, I can give you a whole lot more than just three month's rent."

James stared at money in disbelief. Eight thousand dollars? That could pay for way more than three month's rent. Hell, that could pay for a new apartment completely. He could move to a nicer part of town, maybe even try to get a job. Start afresh with a better budget. Right now he was finding it difficult to remember anything but darkness when it was all that he lived in. Maybe a pleasant change of scenery would bring his memories flooding back. Maybe he could finally remember why the name Steve Rogers haunted him more than any ghost ever could.  
The thought was so enticing that he almost forgot that the girl was waiting for his answer.

"What do I have to do?" He asked carefully, meeting her eyes with his own blue ones.  
Hope began to blossom once more in her green gaze, but it was squashed down as she tried to keep her composure.   
"A trip around the continent," she said. "I need to visit a few big cities without the authorities knowing of my whereabouts. People are searching for me, Mr Barnes, and you have to help me stay hidden. And that's it, really - a quick hitchhike around Europe and someone to keep me safe. Not a lot for eight thousand, right?"

James didn't respond immediately. Instead he wordlessly stood up so that he was facing her head on. He looked down at her appraisingly, and then glanced back at the money. In his mind he had already made his decision, but he couldn't help but feel somewhat suspicious. The plan was too simple. For that sum of money there had to be a catch to this deal, and yet...

"What's your name?" He asked her.  
"Wanda Maximoff."

For one last moment they stared at each other, the tension in the air thick and heavy. Then, abruptly, it disappeared as James held out his hand firmly. The girl - Wanda - blinked in surprise and immediately slipped her hand into his before he could change his mind. Her grip was firm and unyielding - just like his. He appreciated that about her.

"Well, Wanda Maximoff," he said, "you have a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually posted this a while ago on wattpad and completely forgot about Ao3 until a friend reminded me. I hope you enjoy x


End file.
